


Mutually Assured Destruction

by maybe_i



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Joker (2019)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dark, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Child Abuse, Slow Burn, so strap in and enjoy the ride, this is not going to be a pretty fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:47:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22178794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybe_i/pseuds/maybe_i
Summary: This is the intro to the story of the original character I'm going with for this series. A prequel to the main events, basically. I guess I've spent too much time thinking about her backstory :)Inspired by Mr Robot's main character and slightly by Batman's origin story, among other things.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Original Character(s), Arthur Fleck/Original Female Character(s), Joker/Original Character(s), Joker/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 7





	1. We're all mad here

**Author's Note:**

> This is the intro to the story of the original character I'm going with for this series. A prequel to the main events, basically. I guess I've spent too much time thinking about her backstory :)
> 
> Inspired by Mr Robot's main character and slightly by Batman's origin story, among other things.

One gunshot. That’s all it took to get her where she is now. That was the beginning of her descent into what most would call madness – because _normal_ people wouldn’t process the trauma by making their dead mother their imaginary (and only) friend. 

She was seven. The thought that mommy and daddy were going to die one day had never even crossed her mind. Children of that age don’t have a full-on grasp on the inevitability of death.

She still sees her mother’s eyes in the nightmares. They are her faithful companions, the only constant in the life of changing variables – that is if she manages to drift asleep at least for a couple of hours.

They all follow the same scenario.

The almost darkness of the ill-lit street, one of many in Gotham. The sound of the gunshot. Blood, so much blood – more than anyone should see in their entire fucking life. The _Shhh it’s okay, Katie, it’s okay_ , mixed with the gulping sounds, dissolves into the white noise while the little Kate stares into the eyes filled with fear. It doesn’t match the words her mother is trying to articulate through choking on the blood from her lungs. They don’t have any soothing effect on her. She should be terrified; instead, there’s only confusion and disbelief _that this is really happening_. They grow into panic and, a few seconds after her mother's eyes stop moving, she's left numb. 

That gaze is the first thing she recalls whenever her mother is mentioned. The eyes of a cornered animal that knows it’s about to die. The realization that there is no escape from the nothingness that is bound to follow the last breath.

She wakes up covered in cold sweat, somehow freezing even under the warmest blanket she can find.

\---

Everyone has their coping mechanisms. Some choose to believe in horoscopes, some find consolation in religion, and some… well, let’s just say that some opt for less healthy options.

She’s tried a number of those. Smoking. Excessive drinking till she’d throw up and pass out. Magic pills that numb the pain.

But her ultimate coping mechanism is becoming someone else when the pain becomes unbearable. Psychiatrists would’ve called it an identity disorder. She calls it the only thing that makes sure she wouldn’t end herself.

She’s learned to live with it. She’s even grown to find comfort in letting someone else step in and take over when everything is just _too much_ for her to deal with. Come to think of it, this perhaps even helps her fit in as _normal_ (moody, but still within the boundaries of _normal_ ) - instead of the 'freaking out' reaction, her posture and body language, along with the choice of words, change. It's slight and barely noticeable to an outsider unless you've known her intimately for years - but she's never let anyone in close enough to be able to see the difference.

Anyone can be different people under different circumstances, especially if they are stressful ones, right? 

Of course, she knows when her other self takes the wheel. She lets it happen willingly, she invites the passenger to become the driver, and their relationship is rather a symbiosis than a fight for control over the body. Everything she’s done as ‘not herself’ still gets recorded and stored in her memory while she is observing it happen as if watching a movie.

They aren’t two people sharing a body. They are... two sides of the same coin.

She should probably find a name for her other self. Although she imagines it to look like her dead mother, calling it ‘mom’ would be too weird even by her standards.

\---

Sometimes she entertains the ‘what-ifs’ of her father getting gunned down in that alley instead of her mother. In that alternative universe, she would've managed to work through the PTSD. She would’ve ended up graduating from university with honors. She would’ve landed a prestigious job at a multinational company.

Maybe, she would’ve been able to smile out of sheer joy – and not because you can’t come off as _normal_ if you don’t put on a happy face. Hell, maybe, she would’ve even laughed and danced and lived without a care in the world, enjoying every single day of her life.

But that’s not her reality.

Her father wasn’t a saint. He belonged to the same breed of assholes like the one that killed her mother. They take advantage of the weak. They stop you from seeing any good in people – instead, you see all the ways they could inflict pain on you. Anyone automatically becomes a potential threat.

Maybe, he couldn’t reconcile with the grief, and it ate all the good in him away until all that was left was the twisted, ugly version of himself.

Maybe, he always had it in him. She couldn’t remember how he behaved in the times before the gunshot left her alone with him.

One thing is for sure – once her mother was gone, there was no one to stand between her and that sorry excuse of a father. There was no one to yell ‘Stop!’ when he slapped her for making too much noise. There was no one to make sure she wouldn’t starve because he got too drunk to care if she had eaten. And there was no one she could turn to when he did things to her no fathers should do to their daughters.

She buried the memories of who he really was as soon as his body was six feet under – which was three years after her mother’s murder. Lung cancer. The few people that showed up at the funeral expected her to cry – _she’d become an orphan, what a poor kid!_ – but she tried her best to look sad.

All she felt was a sigh of relief itching to get out of her lungs. From where she was standing, she dodged a bullet.

\---

 _I know life’s been tough for you. I promise we’ll take good care of you now._ Uncle Jim's eyes were trying to reach Kate’s, but she avoided eye contact. She preferred to look at people only to study their behaviors and reactions, and the best time to do that was when they had no idea she was even watching.

She was desperate to convince herself the promise was true; yet, she’d seen too much ugliness which people tend to hide to take anything at face value.

Becoming a part of his family was still a better option than an orphanage, though.

She nodded and tried to squeeze out a small smile. She needed to get better at fake smiles – she was sure he could see just how artificial it was. But she counted on him thinking she was just being shy – that's the card she still prefers to play whenever trying to live up to the expectations of the people around her.

Five days after she turned ten, right after her father’s funeral, she stepped into Jim and Sarah’s house.

_Make yourself at home._

\---

Since that gunshot, she rarely felt anything. She marched on, figured out and complied with the social norms, constructed an intricate, detailed façade, but there was almost nothing behind the mask of an A-grader and computer geek.

Except for the rage.

Sometimes it was hot, blood-boiling. It could get set off by even the smallest of remarks from her classmates. She’d learned to contain it – _normal girls shouldn’t get into fights_ , after all. When it paid her a visit, she’d find something she could hit, away from the prying eyes; it helped – but it was always a temporary solution. That rage would find its way back eventually; she was stuck in this loop.

Sometimes, though, it was the kind of rage that makes you calculate the most efficient way to cause someone as much pain as possible, and there was no getting rid of it. All she could do was distract herself from it until it crawled back into her subconsciousness.

\---

It was a cold case for years. Her mother wasn’t rich and powerful, so cops hardly tried to do their job and bring the asshole to justice. To them, she was just one of many, a +1 in the already disastrous crime stats.

Uncle Jim, being a GCPD detective, tried his best - she knows that. He took the case, he worked it in his free time, even though everyone told him it was pointless and he should drop it. After all, other - more recent - cases kept towering on his desk and demanded his attention.

Surprisingly to everyone, he managed to get an actual lead. It took a while, but he chased the asshole down – almost six years after that night.

But they let the asshole go. Apparently, cops cared so little that they let him buy his way out of the justice system. Officially, no one ever pressed charges. Officially, there was no hard proof he was anywhere near that alley that night.

No one gave a fuck she thought she recognized him. _Oh, she was just a kid, she doesn’t know what she saw, it was years ago._

All the evidence was circumstantial at best. 

In his defense, Uncle Jim was fierce when it came to pushing this case forward. His gut kept telling him that guy, known to the world as Joe Comey, was _the_ asshole.

Until one day he came home with a black eye and blood dripping from his mouth to the white shirt.

This was how she learned how corrupt Gotham actually was.

_I am so sorry, Kate. Sometimes, the world isn’t fair. I hope you will make it a better one someday._

Years later, Jim would confess to her that he got beaten by his own partner over just a few hundred bucks that partner was paid. That prior to that, he had received so many threats and demands to drop the case that he couldn’t fall asleep without the sleeping pills – each time he tried, he imagined masked men breaking into the house and Kate’s or Sarah’s screams and all the gruesome ways they could get tortured or killed right in front of him.

But back then, when she was 13, that day marked the moment the rage within her finally got a clear direction.

She held onto it, nourished it, cultivated it. She let it grow into the furthest corners of her mind.

She wanted to find that asshole and unleash it onto him.

\---

 _Look at me_ , - the familiar voice cut through the white noise in her mind. She’d been sitting in the corner of her room for what appeared to be 40 minutes now, trying to make the numbness go away by spurring herself into crying, but her eyes were dry and tired, as always. That was the usual ritual for the past couple of years, occurring at least once a week.

That’s when her mother walked into the room. She crouched in front of Kate, trying to get a glimpse into her eyes. Her voice was what Kate imagined mothers should always sound like: sympathetic and protective. She followed the request and looked up, giving her mother the cue to continue speaking, - _I’m not real. I’m a part of your imagination. A part of you, actually. Do you understand?_

That question didn’t come out of the blue. Kate had been talking to her while chilling on the swings at the playground after school, and that strange scene unfolded in front of several passers-by. But Gotham being Gotham, the most effortful thing they did was shooting the strange looks her way.

Kate nodded, while still wrapping her head around that. Of course, she knew, she’d always known – but their interactions were the most enjoyable part of her life, and she immersed herself too deep into that make-believe that the line between real and imaginary got too thin to be noticeable anymore.

_You need to accept this. People aren’t supposed to have imaginary friends. If you’re not careful enough, they’ll throw you into a loony bin._

Kate furrowed her eyebrows at the thought of being committed to an asylum. It’s not like she enjoys her current life a lot either – there are too many ‘you should be this’ and ‘good girls don’t do that’ and _pretending_. Pretending to fit the requirements for _being normal_. Pretending that the world is doing fine while suffering and misery pick up their pace through people’s lives.

To her, that was a lot crazier than talking to a made-up person – the way others seemed not to notice how fucked up everything was. Or maybe they just didn’t care.

But she couldn’t just admit she’d failed. The rage wouldn’t let her give in. It would screech inside her skull at the mere thought of that.

It wanted justice for her mother. That can’t be achieved from the inside of a soft-padded room.

_Promise you won’t leave me alone?_

_I won’t. And as long as I’m here, I’ll do everything to keep you safe, alright? I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Pinky promise._

The image of her mother held out her pinky with a gentle smile. Kate nodded again and sealed the pact.

Her illusion seemed to catch up with what was going on in her thoughts, _I know the world doesn’t make any sense to you right now. I don’t know if it ever will._ This got Kate listening closely as if recording every word. _It’s chaotic in its cruelty. It’s ugly, and it’s easier to stumble upon pain than happiness or joy. And yeah, people go on pretending that everything is fine. Makes you angry, doesn’t it?_

Kate was hesitant to speak as she wanted to be discreet about her… manifestation of mental instability. So, she whispered, _It does. What if the anger never goes away?_

Her illusion gave Kate an all-knowing smile that had a hint of mischief to it. _Why does it have to? You can put this anger to work. Let it be your power. You could do something good with it._

\---

Whenever rage left her, the darkness, her everlasting companion, would take its place. It was rarely soothing – because it was the absence of emotions, utter nothingness. It left her exhausted, unable to get up from the bed. It made her consider ending herself all over again. But the promise of vengeance made her put off that decision every time.

\---

_Why do you think I’m here?_

_Because I made you up._ Kate had finally come to terms with this fact, accepted her ‘not-so-much-sane’ quirk, so the statement slipped out with no hesitation or shame.

_Why do you think you made me up?_

She hadn’t given it much thought. Mostly because when she had tried to unravel that mystery, she had dug too deep into herself and found too many potential answers.

 _I don’t know._ They both knew that wasn’t completely the truth – after all, they were the same person.

_But you’ve been thinking about that, haven’t you? Remember what you read about the coping mechanisms?_

A nod followed, coupled with the _I do_ after a brief pause _._ A few moments passed, and her illusion was exhibiting all the patience in the world while Kate’s cogs in her mind turned. _So, you are my coping mechanism. I needed to deal with the stress after your death. Why did you bring this up?_

 _I appeared long after that night._ It was more of a whisper, like an opening for a confession to be made.

_Then why did I need you?_

_Because of what your father did to you._ That was the confession itself. The memories of the abuse flooded her mind until she couldn’t see straight and her legs gave in and she let herself sit on the floor. The world narrowed down to the single point where she was staring – her knees – as she tried to get enough air into the lungs but she kept failing miserably.

The sound of the shaking breath filled the room.

In the corner of her mind, a thought glimpsed, _So, this is what a panic attack feels like._

She’d give anything to forget again. Live in ignorance.

Her dead mother’s words invaded the silence, _Focus on my voice._ She guided Kate’s hands onto the back of her neck. _Listen to your heartbeat and squeeze them lightly in its rhythm. It will help you regain control._

She would use this technique every time she’d get into this state – and it'd be a lot more often than she'd like.

It took her eternity to calm down. When the panic was gone, confusion took its place. _Why did you make me remember?_

_I couldn’t protect you from those memories any longer. I was just doing damage control after every nightmare you had involving… him… But there was no turning back to before. The dam had started leaking._

_What am I supposed to do now?_

_Same thing everyone does – transform the pain and anger into something else. Let them fuel your… investigative passion._ The hint was subtle, but it was there. Kate was searching the asshole of that night, unsuccessfully for now, hoping she’d bring him to her own version of justice one of these days.

\---

She enjoyed the company of her computer much more than being around other people. When it came to most interactions, she tolerated their superficial conversation topics and held up the façade of a not-so-talkative-but-still-normal geek. The trick is to ask as many questions as you can – people talking about themselves, they’re selfish that way. So, she’d just let them indulge their ego, encourage them to do so.

She liked the logic behind any program. It was neat, structured, understandable. She’d spent her evenings figuring out what made them tick and creating her own ones, more elaborate and elegant in their efficiency.

People were not that different. There was always something making them tick, and Kate would dissect their needs and wants and pinpoint those primary drives as fast as she did with programs. On average, it took her up to 15 minutes of talking to the person to draw conclusions and know what buttons to push if she ever needed a favor.

Most people weren’t complicated enough to be interesting. That’s why she didn’t really have anyone she’d call a friend. The word was too sacred to be applied to people she could tolerate longer than usual.

That could also be why she found criminal psychology so much more enticing than talking to actual people. She could spend hours trying to get into some notorious serial murderer’s mind.

She was disgusted with their deeds - that never changed. But their minds seemed to present a tougher puzzle, a greater challenge.

\---

She didn’t stick around at Gotham University long enough to get the bachelor’s in computer sciences. If you asked her why, she’d say _Our education system is rotten. There, they didn’t teach us to solve problems creatively by writing the code. They wanted us to learn all the unnecessary crap by heart, and I’d just forget 99% of it after the exam._

That wasn’t the only reason, though. Sure, she was bored in the classes most of the time. Sure, she found interning at Wayne Enterprises a lot more useful and educative.

But the main reason was that she couldn’t stand going there and working _so fucking hard_ to fit in.

Unlike with school, she at least had a real choice to drop out with minimum losses to her façade. If anything, it painted her in the light of being too smart for formal education.

\---

The internship at Wayne Enterprises led to a full-time job after a couple of months. It is bearable there: she sits in front of the computer all day writing and maintaining the corporate software – which means little to no human contact – and creativity in finding potential exploits and getting rid of them has earned her the reputation of a valuable employee.

It's also helped her move out to her own apartment. It was surprising that the building hasn’t been torn down yet – people shouldn’t have to live in such conditions, with rust and mold and electricity cuts and the elevator that gets stuck for a dozen of seconds every single time you take it.

But, living on her own means she doesn't have to keep up the appearances when she goes back from work the way she did for Jim and Sarah.

Her fellow coworkers haven't been pressuring her into participating in their informal gatherings – she appreciates it the most. Yet, she’s gone to several of those over these three years – mostly because her coworkers go to pubs.

She sees no harm in trying – after all, if she doesn’t feel like pretending to be interested in their latest hookups and office gossips, she can always entertain herself with a glass of whiskey.

Being drunk really does a number on her ability to fake smiles and laughs – so, she’d go to pubs more and more often. She wouldn’t go alone though – only loners and outcasts did that, and she couldn’t afford being considered one.

\---

The worst part about interacting with people is the lack of connection. She knows that with certain people, you’re supposed to click and feel like you’re two threads in the same stitch, like you have so much in common.

But that is an unrealistic promise to her.

She's tried to replace it with physical contact. Being touched often feels uncomfortable for her – she shivers after a pat on the back and rarely lets anyone hug her. Uncle Jim is an exception from that rule, however – when she hugs him, she does feel that ghost of connection to another human soul, and she never wants to let go.

Once again, drinking helps. She's gotten more liberated about her sexuality, she lets random guys flirt with her – although she's never really understood what they see in her – and it's not uncommon for her to find herself in an almost stranger’s bed the morning after too much beer and whiskey to remember how she got there in the first place and which part of Gotham she's in.

She rarely regrets that. Orgasms make her feel more alive, even if for a few moments.

\---

Not a day goes by in Gotham without the reports of a murder or a crime that must’ve cast only suffering onto the victims.

She would never allow herself to become another powerless human being reduced to a statistic. That’s why she's been studying psychology, taking self-defense classes, and always carries a pocket knife sharp enough to leave the perpetrator bleeding with a single swing.

She would rather hurt them than get hurt herself.

Well, that's only partially the truth. She wants to be able to protect herself should the shit go down, yes. But she's also been working towards fulfilling what she decided to be the purpose of her life – making sure Joe Comey pays for her mother’s murder, even though the currency of that payment is frowned upon in the society.

It’s not like the broken justice system gave her any choice.

She's sometimes curious if she would be able to take a life – provided it would be the life of that asshole.

But despite her best efforts to find Comey, it's like he vanished into the thin air.


	2. Kindness of a stranger

The best way to see how drunk someone has gotten is to have them walk down the stairs.

That night, she opted out of going to a pub. She wanted to let the loneliness consume her without others staring or trying to approach her. She needed to see her good old imaginary friend, too.

The reason? Nothing worked anymore. Not the booze. Not the occasional sex with strangers. 

The rage was gone, its flame strong and all-consuming as a forest fire was now barely a spark of a match. The darkness took its place. Waking up now meant struggling to stay awake instead of escaping into the void of being asleep. Once that battle was won, she fought with herself to get her stupid body up while it seemed she spent all her energy on just breathing and _being._

She got drunk that night anyway, with the naïve hope that it’d have some effect on her like it did before. Well, it didn’t.

The bottle of whiskey was half-empty when she realized she ran out of cigarettes. 

The fucking elevator broke down for the third time this month, and the landlord didn’t really go out of his way to fix it. She mused herself with the thought of finding some dirt on him that would convince the bastard to be a decent human being to his tenants.

It’s a shame that sometimes that was what it took to make others be civil to fellow human beings.

She can manage a quick trip to the 24/7 store around the corner, right? She didn’t drink _that_ much.

One flight of stairs, two, three, four, five. She was doing okay. She could still manage to walk despite the dizziness – it wasn’t elegant or quick, but at least she was moving from point A to point B.

But of course, she’d trip over on her way down. Of course, that would happen she was so close to the ground floor. Of course, she’d fall flat on her face.

 _Fuck,_ she growled. 

_Are- are you okay?_

The voice came from where the mailboxes must be. She caught a glimpse of its source, blurry as everything around her. He wasn’t remarkable. Others probably looked right through him.

When did he get from the mailboxes to standing next to her?

_Do you need help?_

His voice sounded so familiar. It took her a few seconds before it hit her: it was similar to hers. Bleak and flat. She knew how much that threw people off, as if it was revealing there wasn’t much emotion behind the words.

For some reason, she found that intriguing. She’d never met anyone who’d speak in the same manner she did.

What she intended to be _Thanks, I’m fine_ came out of her mouth as pathetic, hardly distinguishable mumbling noises.

Her limbs didn’t really seem to react to the impulses her consciousness tried to send through the nervous system. _Get the fuck up._ She didn’t want anyone’s help. Not letting anyone see your weaknesses was her self-preservation mechanism of choice. A handful of people had ever seen her _lose it_ , only because they managed to get closer to her than where she intended to keep them.

The stranger took her by the arm and helped her up. His touch didn’t make her feel anything, which was rare – alcohol could be the reason behind numbing the uncomfortable sensations. She had to lean to the wall; she wasn’t sure she could stand straight without its support. Everything was spinning.

She might wake up to some bruises on her knees and arms.

She tried to focus her vision at the man in front of her, but she failed. Going out for cigarettes was a dumb idea, but she had gotten too drunk to see that, and she had to deal with this whole situation.

_You look like you need help._

Did he skillfully pretend he cared, or the worry in his voice was sincere?

This time, _I’m fine_ was a lot clearer thanks to the tremendous effort she put into articulating the words. It was meant to be final and non-negotiable, like a polite ‘fuck off’ to end the encounter, but it came out too soft and tired.

Turning around to go back to her apartment and sleeping it off was her best option. In a state like this, running into the wrong people would inevitably lead to her getting mugged or raped or beaten or all three in any order. She couldn’t protect herself if she couldn’t even get down the stairs without an accident.

_Can I at least walk you to… wherever you’re going?_

She didn’t want his company. Her drunkenness was a clear symptom of being self-destructive and having issues, and she wasn’t in the mood to answer his questions. She didn’t want him, or anyone else, to see through the cracks of her façade.

_No. Thanks._

This time, her voice was firmer. Without waiting for a response, she turned her back on him and started on her quest to return to the apartment without another accident.

When she had almost finished the first flight of stairs, echoing laughter cut through the silence of the stairwell. Just like the voice, it didn’t sound completely _human;_ at least, not in the way people expect human being’s laughter to sound. Instead, it was too strained, and it resembled a cry instead of being a sign of joy.

There was a delay in her reaction because of being drunk. A few seconds later, it caught up to her that what she was hearing was bizarre and out of place. She wanted to take a few steps back to see its source; it could’ve been the man who helped her up. But she talked herself out of it; it was Gotham, the home of ‘weird’ and ‘bizarre’ and ‘fucked up’. She’d learned to ignore it. Besides, once again, in case it was a sign of danger, she’d be helpless.

So, she marched on.

Back at her apartment, she crawled into the bed without caring to take off the clothes. Despite the drunkenness, it took her several minutes to fall asleep. Before the familiar nothingness claimed her mind, the laughter occupied her thoughts as if she could still hear it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)  
> P.S. I'm not a native speaker, so sorry if some mistakes found their way into the text, I've tried my best and edited it a number of times.


End file.
